


cibophobia

by unbreakable_groundriot



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Typical Content, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Fluff, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Murder Husbands, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read, Phobias, Season 2 AU, Will Graham is a Cannibal, Will realizing how neurotic Hannibal really is, sleeping disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22125736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbreakable_groundriot/pseuds/unbreakable_groundriot
Summary: Hannibal has his quirks. Daily their apartment was scrubbed from top to bottom with all the efficiency of a surgeon. All mail, even junk mail, was required to be in alphabetical order by date delivered. The refrigerator and pantry were similarly organized. Will was by no means allowed to help put away groceries.Or, Will notices that Hannibal is not as put together as he seems.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 57
Kudos: 482





	1. cibophobia un

**Author's Note:**

> AU in which Will decides to leave with Hannibal during S2

He wakes to low, rumbling speech, gentle stroking of his hair, and an awful crick in his neck.

The hand in his hair pushes his mess of curls aside and then it travels down to squeeze the back of his neck. He nuzzles closer to the rumble of a chuckle before the squeeze becomes a playful tug of the hair at his nape.

“Dinner is served, dear boy. You have had your beauty sleep.”

Will pushes upright with one hand and uses the other to properly push his hair away. His partner’s hand does not leave his neck until the flight attendant cheerfully places a single tray of food, gourmet by airline standards, in front of him.

Hannibal inspects every aspect of the meal as he removes the plastic wrap from each dish. He even tilts the silverware this way and that before arranging the tray in front of Will properly. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Parmentier de bouef seemed an acceptable choice.” As if on a whim the older man uses his thumb and forefinger to lift the cup of organic applesauce from the tray. It is calmly discarded to the very edge of Hannibal’s tray table.

“I would settle for a peanut butter sandwich at this point.” Will has learned not to question the man’s proclivities when it comes to airline food.  
“You would gag at the texture.” Hannibal admonishes. “And that is not how one should experience food. Now eat, lest your food becomes cold.”

The parmentier de bouef tastes like nothing more than a pretentious shepherds pie but he nearly scrapes the oval bowl to reach the last bits of sauce and mushroom. He eats his salad of beans and vegetables with less fervor and saves the roll of warm bread for last. All the while Hannibal seems to make a point of not watching him. He sips a glass of orange juice and reads from a magazine they’d bought in the terminal.

When the meal is over and the trays collected wine is served. Hannibal speaks to the attendant again and his French does not falter as Will boldly bundles back under his arm. Wine in hand he presses a kiss to the shaggy top Will’s head. If he pauses there and breathes deeply then Will simply chooses not to notice.

“You’re not eating?” He plays with the faux-glass that is filled with whatever Hannibal has decided is decent enough to ingest. For a man intent on laying low Hannibal would settle for nothing less than first class.  
“I’ve no stomach for the food here.” He flips to the next page of his magazine. It’s some standard men’s fashion and lifestyle magazine and of course, it’s in French. Will can only enjoy the pictures for now.

He sets the wine down and slides one hand into Hannibal’s waistcoat for no other reason than to feel his breathing and take in his warmth. “There’s fruit.” He suggests with a tilt of his head. “The bread was good.” He widens his eyes and turns his mouth into a pleading moue.

Sadly his cunning plan fails before it can truly begin.

“Do not try to use your wiles on me, darling Will.” A gentle kiss replaces his pout. “I will survive a few hours without food. I have wine and your beauty to nourish me.”

The little shit-eating grin is what really gets Will to roll his eyes. Hannibal is unpredictable and dangerous and he is very fond of dry humor played seriously; Will hates to love it. 

He stroked his hand up and down Hannibal’s stomach with the barest movement. “You haven’t eaten since Zurich, have you?”

Hannibal kisses him silent.

* * *

They had disappeared. Will had fed his dogs and written a note to Alana. Hannibal had burned all of his journals. The house was carefully cleaned and hidden away under white sheets and heavy locks. It was almost polite.

Hannibal had spirited them away on prearranged passports and identification. The apartment in Paris was opulent as anything one would expect from Hannibal Lecter. 

Six months as the happily married, though not officially despite Hannibal's protests, Lecter couple gives Will even more intimate insight into what makes Hannibal tick. Hannibal being a cannibal serial killer who had tried to ruin his life and possibly kill him was one thing. That bridge had been mended in its own way as they had come to truly know each other after his release from the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He had known that Hannibal was different. He had not, however, really noticed how strange his lover truly was until they had begun to cohabitate.

To the outside world, Hannibal is every bit the polite, educated European nobleman he appeared to be. His accent was smooth and his grasp of multiple languages was impressive. His stylish yet tacky fashion spoke of peacocking wealth and the guilty pleasure of men's fashion magazines. 

In the quietness of their home where only Will can see, Hannibal is, and Will is hesitant to even think it, neurotic.

Hannibal has his charming, silly quirks as any other person might. He owns seven pairs of the same pajamas and prefers to remain shirtless until it is time to get dressed for the day. He orders one specific brand of styling gel imported from some brand Will can't pronounce and would rather hide at home than use another brand. He detests having his nails cleaned, to Will’s surprise, and the look on Hannibal’s face when Will has offered to cut them had been not unlike a dog hung up in a harness to get its nails trimmed. 

Hannibal also had his more concerning quirks. Daily their apartment was scrubbed from top to bottom with all the efficiency of a surgeon. All mail, even junk mail, is required to be in alphabetical order by date delivered. The refrigerator and pantry are similarly organized. Will is by no means allowed to help put away groceries. 

  
“I can practically hear your stomach,” Will whispers into the broader man’s ear as they waltz around the room. He can smell that overly expensive hair product mixed with Hannibal’s surprisingly pedestrian cologne. The bottle did not have a ship on it, but he had been shocked to find it was something simply purchased at a department store.

The firm hand on his back twitches almost imperceptibly. “We had dinner before we left, my darling.” He drops a kiss to Will’s forehead as the dance slows to a stop. Will knows that Hannibal is well aware of the effect such little displays of affection have on him.

They step away from the dance floor. Hannibal snags them both a flute of champagne. Huddled close and intimate, no one approaches for the moment. “You’re hungry, Hannibal.” He keeps his voice low. No one seems to notice them but one can never trust Parisian socialites.   
“You have a sudden interest in my eating habits.” His hand finds Will’s lower back again. Through the expensive material of his jacket, he can feel the warmth.

“I notice patterns. This is not the first time I've noticed you ignoring food,” Will corrects. His boyfriend, and how Hannibal hates the term, cocks his head slightly. Hannibal is a master of nonverbal communication or perhaps Will simply knows him. “You don’t eat when we aren’t at home.” He frowns. The pendulum does not swing over his gaze but he still filters through his memories.

That isn’t true. Hannibal had brought him breakfast and lunch a dozen times when they had become friends and, eventually, entered a secret relationship. The shocked looks on the faces of his students and fellow faculty members when Hannibal appeared with lunch had grown old and faded with time. A few times Hannibal had reluctantly agreed to stay the night at the house in Wolf Trap. He had always brought his own ingredients and even made the dog's meals. 

Hannibal smiles one of those little, twitchy smiles that aren't quite displeasure but aren't amusement either. He reaches out to push a wayward curl from Will's forehead in a gesture that has become intimately familiar. "Another dance?"

It isn't really a question. 


	2. somniphobia un

Hannibal slept. For some reason, that realization had come as a shock to Will. He had seen the man asleep in Abigail’s sick room only once, but he still suspected that it was an act.

Their first night together had been spent more awake than asleep. Hannibal had fallen asleep last and awoken first to greet Will with coffee and borrowed loungewear.

Their second and third nights had been much the same though Will had brought his own pajamas.

Will tried to catch Hannibal falling asleep. He tried to catch him asleep. He’d even once secreted away far too much water before bed only to find that Hannibal was half awake and watching him as he got up to relieve himself.

Will had fallen asleep on the fainting sofa in Hannibal’s office a dozen times while waiting for the man to finish his work. He’d snored his way through afternoons to be awoken by the scent of dinner and Hannibal’s baritone gently rousing him. He’d slept in Hannibal’s bed and in his arms. He’d slept against his chest on the long series of flights from Baltimore to Paris.

Yet in the months leading up to their disappearance, Will could say he had never seen Hannibal truly sleep.

Hannibal’s sleeping habits hardly hampered Will’s attraction toward him. Living together, really living together, was a chance to properly learn one another’s deep, dark domestic secrets.

Will didn’t mind using the toilet with the door open. Hannibal minded.  
Hannibal didn’t mind radioless, televisionless silence. Will minded.

Will ate sandwiches sans plate or napkin. There was no need to waste a dish.  
Hannibal ate his toast, he did not eat sandwiches, on a plate with a cloth napkin. All meals were to be eaten with dignity.

Will spent his days reading or watching television. When Hannibal opened a practice in Paris he took on the role of receptionist and secretary. There was something pleasing about having his imagination all to himself with no sudden calls from the FBI to ruin his day.  
Hannibal kept a detailed journal of every action he planned to partake in on that specific day. He scheduled himself from morning until evening and followed that schedule strictly unless Will's wide-eyed whims broke him. He seemed to enjoy the rigid structure of having so little time to be alone with his thoughts. 

Will had seen the journal a hundred times by now. Hannibal began his day at six in the morning and scheduled himself until eleven in the evening. Between those hours there was no note to sleep or rest. There was a note, most days, around nine that simply said, or as simple as Hannibal's elegant scrawl could allow: "Will."

They sit in the sitting room, which is apparently different than the living room. Will's socked feet push under Hannibal's still fully clothed thighs. Hannibal casually flicks through his iPad and Will finds himself dozing. The room is warm and quiet. Dinner had been...Something complicated and rich and French and the wine had been strong. There is an intimacy that, months ago, would not have been possible. 

Hannibal sets his iPad down on the end table. He runs a warm hand up Will's leg. "You'll ruin your beauty sleep." He rumbles. He crawls up and between Will's slowly splaying legs. He's heavy and warm and the added weight gives Will a sense of calm. 

"Wasn't asleep." Will finds himself smiling lazy and fond as deadly hands pet his hair. Hannibal seems endlessly fascinated with his ever-growing curls. He had asked Will to shave his facial hair but never allow a blade near his hair without Hannibal's express permission. It had been a strange but easy request to acquiesce to.

"The ever so charming snores, my darling, speak otherwise. I believe it is time for you to shower and ready for bed."

* * *

Hannibal exits their en suite in nothing but the towel he's using to dry his hair. "You're still awake."  
"You never came to bed." It's not an accusation but more of a question. Will had waited and waited and then fallen asleep in a cold bed. He watches droopy-eyed as Hannibal pulls on his underwear and one of his seven identical pairs of pajama pants. The man returns to the bathroom to hang his towel and brush his teeth. 

Will glances at the bedside clock and finds that it is nearly four in the morning by the time Hannibal wraps an arm around him to drag him close. "Missed you..."

* * *

  
Hannibal sleeps. He sleeps inelegantly with his mouth slack and his hair covering half of his face. His nose twitches but thankfully he doesn't snore. His eyes twitch and then slowly open. 

"You're awake."

Will pushes the baby fine hair from Hannibal's eyes. There is no hint of grogginess behind the brown, nearly maroon irises. "I turned off your alarm."   
Hannibal rolls his eyes and then rolls over to push Will into the bed. 


	3. ataxophobia un

“My lawyer will be in contact shortly.”   
Hannibal closes and locks the apartment door with all of the grace he has cultivated over the years. 

That grace lasts only a few more seconds. Now, no longer under the scrutiny of Interpol agents, he lets his mask fall. Will sees rage and possessiveness and wicked amusement vying for emotional power behind those dark eyes.

They had come in the wee morning hours in an attempt, no doubt, to catch the pair off guard. Their apartment had been searched from top to bottom. A dog had been brought in to smell every inch of their home in the hopes of finding something. Will had been questioned separately to ensure that he wasn’t being held against his will. They had found nothing. 

Hannibal stalks over and curls his fingers into the hair at the back of Will’s head. He gladly leans in as the older man presses his face into Will’s neck and just breathes. The younger man slides his hands up and under the red sweater Hannibal had hastily pulled on and just lets his hands rest against warm, bare skin. 

It’s strange seeing Hannibal like this. He had been all arrogant politeness as their apartment was torn apart. He had been perfectly content to sit in the living room while Will was brought into the sitting room. He had even offered the agents snacks and drinks.

They had found nothing in Baltimore and nothing in Wolf Trap. They had found nothing in Paris. Perhaps one day there would be something to find but for now, they are safe.

“They’re gone.” Will presses a kiss to baby-fine hair. “They won’t be back. Let’s go back to bed.” 

Hannibal breathes in deep again. Will knows, and not through his empathy, that Hannibal is not afraid of being caught. He is not angry that their night had been disrupted so violently. He is not worried that Will will leave. 

There had been this nearly imperceptible twitch of his eyes when the first drawer in their kitchen had been roughly yanked open. Another when dirty feet stomped over an expensive rug. Yet another when his drawings were roughly handled and the graphite smeared. Rudeness for the sake of being rude.

"Leave it for later." He finds himself half pleading. "Hannibal." He tries to cling to the man's back as he is pushed away by the hips.  
"I'll have the bedroom ready shortly." He barely hears the man.

* * *

  
The rocks glass has been washed four times in scalding water by the time Hannibal delivers it to him. The whiskey is drugged. Hannibal's medical bag had been rifled through for anything vaguely illegal or suspicious. It had been one of the first things he had returned to order. Indeed there is no way the whiskey isn't drugged. 

Will takes it anyway and watches Hannibal's eyes dilate slightly. "It smells like you." He vaguely gestures to the cream sofa he's sitting on. It had been strongly suggested by the Interpol agents that Hannibal stay on the same sofa during the entirety of their visit. 

It's clean, Hannibal. He doesn't say it. He drains the glass and settles onto his side. Hannibal covers him with a blanket and tucks a pillow under his head. He can't find it in his limbs to do it himself. 

  
The first time he wakes he smells bleach and Hannibal's deodorant. A warm, water-chapped hand spreads across his belly and another appears somewhere above his head to play with his hair. There are new sheets on the bed and the duvet is dryer warm. 

The second time he wakes he feels the warm, steadiness of Hannibal's breath on the back of his neck. The slight hitch in his breathing tells him that the man is properly asleep. He needs to relieve himself but a combination of still heavy limbs and an odd ache in his chest keeps him where he is. 

It's nearly twelve when he is finally able to drag himself out of bed. He pulls on a robe monogrammed HL and trudges through the apartment toward the kitchen. The apartment is clinically clean and has lost some of its lived-in charms from only half a day ago. 

He passes the in-wall wine rack and notes that the bottles have been polished. A right turn brings him to the kitchen where Hannibal is quietly unpacking what is no doubt the first of many cloth grocery bags. This one has a black poodle embroidered on it. It had been a cheeky gift from Will upon his return from a rare solo grocery trip. 

"Did you really throw everything out?" He flicks on the gas to heat the already prepared kettle on the spotless range.   
Hannibal glances at him before his head disappears into the refrigerator again. "Sanitation should never be taken lightly."


	4. autophobia un

Hannibal has his own Wikipedia page. Dr. Count Hannibal Lecter VIII has a Wikipedia page. It’s jarring to see a barely smiling photo of Hannibal staring back at him from the screen of Hannibal’s iPad. The man himself sits at his desk reading a real book with actual pages.

It made sense that Hannibal would have a Wikipedia page. He was a doctor of note in both medicine and psychiatry. He’d written several landmark papers and was considered a genius in his field.

Will reads through the very brief page. It mentions Hannibal is Lithuanian nobility (no surprise). His parents' names were listed (deceased) and a sister (deceased) was also listed. The actual biography is brief. Something about political unrest and his education in France and later Johns Hopkins. There is a list of his achievements and then, under his name and birthday and relatives was a box that read spouse.

Will stands almost too quickly from the chair he’d been lounging in. His head spins. “Have you seen this?”

Hannibal blinks up at him through his reading glasses. The office is closed today and his journal had had a much larger space blocked off for “Will.” They were rarely truly apart and yet Hannibal seemed to make it a point that they have proper time together even if that meant simply being in the same room.

Will practically shoves the screen into the man’s face. He can feel anxiety welling deep inside of him. There is a lingering feeling in his gut that, had things gone differently, Hannibal would have been taken away from him. Deep down he knows there is an unhealthy mutual codependent aspect to their relationship and yet it seems to work. Still, he worries that Hannibal will one day discard him.

The page declares, in plain Arial font:  
Spouse: Will Lecter (m. 201x)

The hyperlink of his name leads to a three-sentence biography that primarily describes him as the spouse of Count Dr. Hannibal Lecter VII. There is no discussion of his time incarcerated or even his former profession and achievements. There's no picture and no mention of his previous name. It’s terribly boring, really.

“Ah yes.” Hannibal taps the dimming screen. He adjusts his glasses to get a proper look at the text. “This was changed some weeks ago. My lawyer monitors all mentions of my name for libel. She forwarded the edits to me for approval.”

He uses a letter opener as a bookmark and then closes his book. He beckons and Will finds his body moving on autopilot. Hannibal rolls his desk chair back and pulls Will against his chest just on the uncomfortable side of too firm. The heavy pressure lowers the younger man’s anxiety almost like magic.

“Does it bother you so much, shy boy?” He looks up at Will in a way that makes his throat dry.  
“We aren’t married.”  
“I am aware. You continue to refuse my proposals.”  
“You won’t let me have a dog.”

Will plays with the hair at the nape of the doctor’s neck. His hair is full and thick but baby fine and pin-straight, unlike his own unruly waves and curls. “You’re a count. You never told me that.” He leans into the heavy hug. “There’s no way you want your name attached to someone like me.”

Hannibal strokes up and down his flanks now. He can no doubt sense, and maybe even smell, Will’s lowering anxiety. “On paper, we are married. I hold multiple citizenships. It was the easiest way to steal you away.”  
“You aren't answering me.”

Hannibal watches him all impassive brown-red eyes and straight mouth.

“I am happy to have you attached to my name. You are mine as I am yours. I would have the whole world know.” He smiles a little half-smile reserved for his own amusement at his brand of humor. “The world being anyone willing to look up my name on the internet I suppose.” He noses into the soft fabric of the aubergine, he had been very specific about it not being purple, henley Will had chosen for their day off. 

Will swallows. Hannibal can speak in circles and purple prose but there are times when his frankness comes as a shock. "Did you...edit your own Wikipedia page?"   
Hannibal is not particularly violent despite his murderous tendencies. Will's skin is not littered in bruises or scratches from their time together. He hums into his stomach and, instead of a proper answer, he bites at the flesh of Will's belly and laughs as the younger man tries to escape him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read a meta about how no one ever seems to actually invite Hannibal into situations. He just sort of shows up whenever he feels like it.


	5. cibophobia deux

Hannibal’s eyes always give him away. They are rich brown and, given the right light and right outfit, nearly the color of a good porto rouge. He expresses himself through small twitches of those sharp eyes that are nearly imperceptible to the common man. After all this time Will can read them as easily as any book.

Florence is gorgeous in September. They take their meal outside on the veranda. It is some preparation of liver pate and a salad with ingredients Will didn’t much care about. He’d tried to support Hannibal’s complicated eating habits but at some point, it all ran together. The liver is at least something he understood. The source was grass-fed and prone to throwing paint over expensive leather oxfords.

"Professor Bianchi invited us to dinner at her home.” Will takes a casual bite of a pate covered piece of toast.

Hannibal’s pupils dilated wide though his overall expression didn't change. He chooses to answer only after a sip of water. He gently pats his mouth with his napkin and then carefully folds it back onto his lap. “You do not enjoy her children. We will invite her and her wife to dine here. I’m sure they would enjoy an evening of adult company.”

Hannibal adores children in the way only Hannibal can adore something. Babies thrust upon him are met with gentle hands and small, fond smiles. He calmly wipes spittle from his thousand-dollar suits with two hundred dollar handkerchiefs. Small children are spoken to with quiet dignity. Their unintentionally rude questions are answered unflinchingly. He is even fond of teenagers despite their moodiness. 

They had discussed, sometime after Abigail had graduated from a university in Germany, the idea of children. Will liked kids enough, but after what had happened with Margot he knew he wouldn't really be a father who was completely there for his child. Hannibal, in a rare show of true vulnerability, admitted that it was time for the Lecter line to end. 

In short, there was no reason for Hannibal to deny a chance to interact with the children of a woman whose company they both found stimulating. He was fond of the children despite their rambunctiousness and general stickiness. 

"You never let anyone cook for you. You deserve a break." Will pushes. "Mrs. Bianchi is a fine cook. You've even commented on the advanced palates of the children."

Nearly five years cohabitating and nearly two years of knowing each other intimately and ferociously before that Will had never once seen Hannibal eat something not prepared by his own hand. Even when Will cooked Hannibal hovered and watched. 

"I am not in the mood for the company of children." Hannibal's eyes dilate again. "And their home is..." He makes a vague gesture of displeasure. 

"I want to go." Will knows he's really pushing things. Hannibal's nostrils flair as he lets out a slow breath. Will was still not fond of social situations but Hannibal's guiding presence calmed his social anxieties. "It would be rude not to accept the invitation from a colleague." He receives no answer. 

The rest of their dinner is silent. Hannibal clears the dishes without a word once they've both set down their silverware. He disappears into the kitchen to clean. He doesn't make his blocked out "Will" appointment at nine. Instead, he hides away in his office under the guise of needing to work on an article he's been writing. 

* * *

Will settles under the covers of their bed sometime around ten. They've had their domestic disputes before. Hannibal hasn't shut him out like this in years. Anxiety bubbles hot in his chest and travels down into his stomach. 

He feels the bed shift around one in the morning. As is their custom Hannibal wraps a strong, lean arm around his waist and pulls him close. He noses into the soft hair of Will's nape and breathes in deep and slow. 

"My mother often told us that we should never go to bed angry." 

The man's voice is rough and there's a faint scent of cognac under the scent of his cinnamon toothpaste. His hand curls against Will's stomach almost needily. 

They do not speak of Hannibal's past. They've spoken of his time as Il Mostro di Firenze. They've discussed his time in medical school and some of his more interesting patients. His murders are, at times, even foreplay. His childhood has always been met with silence. 

"I was...perhaps ten. The memory is blurred." Will sets his hand over Hannibal's and squeezes. "Mischa, mano mylimasis, she was barely six. I still remember her smile when Father lifted her up and sang to her on her birthday." 

His accent is thick and his speech slurred. For perhaps the third time in their relationship Will finds himself in the grasp of a truly drunk Hannibal Lecter. Will thinks the man has passed out after he's gone quiet for a time. He hears another deep, shaking breath. 

"They killed her. I do not know if it was quick. I was near death from starvation." A thick swallow. "The soldiers fed me broth with such tenderness. When I was coherent and had some strength one of them lead me close to a road and left me there." 

Will turns in the man's arms. His eyes are closed and Will is thankful for this. He can feel the absolute pain radiating from the other man's voice. Looking into his eyes would be unbearable.

"She tasted so good." 

Will wraps Hannibal in his arms and squeezes. Bile gathers at the base of his throat. He has dined with Hannibal willingly for all these years. He has helped him gather their protein and reveled in the act of consuming it. 

They've never hurt a child. 

"I didn't know until I had picked them off...one by one... The broth was rich and the meat so tender." He takes a great, heaving breath. 

Will presses a kiss and then another and another to Hannibal's forehead. "Just rest. I understand." 


	6. somniphobia deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Super vague reference to child sexual abuse

Sleep comes easier these days. No longer does he rely on the burn of whiskey to numb his mind and body. Sleep comes in the form of Egyptian cotton and a warm body.

The body, however, is not a constant.

Hannibal declares bedtime around ten most evenings. He ushers Will off to bed like a mother hen and clucks about healthy sleeping habits. They settle into bed by eleven.

The apartment in Florence is more on the tacky side of opulent in Will’s honest opinion but it’s situated further away from the main roads than their Paris apartment had been. Indeed the only noise Will currently hears is the steady hum of his bedside fan.

Will isn’t much of a cuddler whereas Hannibal is interestingly tactile. The man often finds a reason to touch Will be it a hand on his lower back as they walk or a gentle kiss to his brow any time they’re close enough. In bed, Will usually begins his the evening tucked against Hannibal’s firm, warm chest. While he was not averse to the floral scent of a woman or the feel of soft breasts, he more enjoys the slight tickle of grey peppered chest hair and the subtle scent of pure man close to his nose. It is a testament to how close he can be to Hannibal. After a short time Hannibal’s left hand will find its way into his hair to play with his curls or massage his scalp. He might simply hold his hand there and use his thumb to absently pet him. The act is soothing and Will is usually asleep by eleven-thirty.

More often than not he wakes up to an empty bed or a still wide awake cannibal.

“Did I wake you?” Hannibal looks up from his drawing.   
Will’s eyes are too blurred from sleep to really notice what he’s doing. He rubs his eye with the sleeve of the sweater he’s pilfered. Hannibal is not much taller than he is but they are two men built completely differently and Hannibal’s clothes are comfortably baggy and warm on cold nights. He shuffles over to drape himself over the man’s back. He nuzzles his nose into his ashen hair and exhales a deep, sleepy sigh.

“It’s nearly five.” He murmurs. Hannibal is not dressed for the day which means he had never properly gone to sleep.  
“I am aware.” Hannibal’s hand comes up to stroke the arm draped lazily down his chest.

“Go back to sleep, dear Will.”

Will curls his fingers. Hannibal can sleep, but Hannibal refuses to sleep more than he allows it. Will has had to resort to turning off Hannibal’s alarm or even hiding his phone to coax the man into a good eight hours. Not even the promise of sex or other pleasures will convince the man to stay in their bed once Will has found sleep.

“Not until you do.” He kisses the side of his neck and then nuzzles his stubbled cheek against warm skin. “Come to bed. It’s not the same without you.”

And Hannibal has told him of his past. He knows of the little boy left alone in the world. He knows of the child forced back into his ancestral home to live with strangers. He knows of the family portrait staring down at him day after day. He knows what things go bump in the night within the halls of Hannibal’s memory palace. He knows of the creeping hands and heavy bodies that still plague Hannibal's mind. He knows the sound of panting breathes and the stench of pain has not faded.

Will can practically hear Hannibal consider his words. Finally, after a few beats, Hannibal sighs. He turns his head to press a kiss to the arms around him. “I will be there momentarily.” He whispers.

He carefully covers his drawing with a smooth sheet of vellum. Will’s sleepy eyes focus long enough to catch a glimpse of Hannibal’s Baltimore office. One more lazy nuzzle and he releases the doctor to stand. He hears the crackle of his vertebrae as he stands.

“You’ve stolen my sweater again, I see.” He quirks out a half-smile that only accentuates the dark circles under his eyes. His hands, broad and deadly, slide up Will’s back and then down to cup his backside. The good doctor has no qualms about such physicality and Will has long come to accept the fact that his ass will be grabbed at any time for any reason though Hannibal balks at calling it such a thing.

Will leans in heavily. They had spent much of the evening in each other’s company leaving him sore and satisfied. Waking up to a cold bed had not been his idea of a good time after such exertions. “You aren’t getting a reward for just saying yes.” He slides out of his arms just as quickly as he’d settled into them.

Will grabs the man by the hand, lacing their fingers together, and leads them to bed. It takes a few minutes for them to settle in properly. Will uses the facilities and returns to find Hannibal already half asleep on his stomach with his face pressed into the pillow.

Will drapes his sweater over the tuxedo couch at the end of the bed and then climbs onto the bed.

Hannibal has not become some docile, domesticated creature even though domestic bliss has afforded him a new softness in his eyes. No, a new monster haunts Florence and Will stands at its side. They call it Il Cinghiale which holds some irony. They are not unlike voracious boar among common pigs.

Yet here lies the monster lying on his belly: prone and vulnerable. Will settles on his side and runs his blunt nails up and down bare, bared skin. “Hey...”  
Hannibal blinks away the heaviness of sleep before his eyes fall shut again. “Hey.” His voice is heavy and accent thick.   
Will can't say when the last time he'd seen Hannibal get a full night's rest was. He leans in to press a kiss to Hannibal's bare shoulder. There's a scar there but not a single freckle. "I feel safer when you're next to me." It's a manipulation tactic, yes, but it's the truth. "Knowing you can sleep soundly... Means I can too." 

Hannibal cracks open sleepy maroon eyes. They're well past this sort of behavior but Hannibal is still a man in love. He pulls the duvet closer and over both of their bodies. Then he shuffles closer to hide his face against Will's body. His breathing slows and he's asleep in mere moments. 


	7. ataxophobia deux

They argue just as any other healthy couple argues.

They are not a healthy couple but, in Will’s opinion, they do pretty well for a pair of psychopathic serial killers.

“You are being totally unreasonable.”

Will throws his set of keys onto the small table in the foyer. He misses the key bowl on purpose. Next, he yanks off his sport coat in a way that will leave unsightly wrinkles. He hangs it on the peg reserved for Hannibal’s coat. He uses the toe of one foot to push in the heel of the other. His boat shoes go flying one by one to slam into the wall.

He storms through the foyer and toward the bar where he pours himself a drink.

Hannibal calmly collects his keys and deposits them into their proper place. His coat is inspected and moved. His shoes are toed into place and the wall subtly checked for scuff marks. There is a barely perceptible uptick in the man’s breathing as he removes his own coat and shoes.

Will leaves the crystal decanter uncapped as he heads to the sitting room. He practically slams the button for the electric fireplace and then throws himself onto the sofa. He kicks his socked feet out and pushes the neat stack of assorted books and papers onto the floor.

He hears Hannibal recapping the decanter of fine scotch and the clink of glasses being shifted back into position.

It’s a dirty trick but Will can’t find it in himself to feel anything beyond his anger at the moment.

“Will.”  
“I have no interest in talking to you.”

Hannibal’s face is closed off and yet so open. He crouches down and gathers up the mess. As soon as he sets the neat stack back onto the low table Will kicks it off again.

The second time Will tries to kick the papers away Hannibal grabs his ankle lightning quick. He squeezes though it isn't painful. There's a barely-there tremor to his mouth. If he wasn't so angry WIll would feel guilty. 

"I'm a grown man, Hannibal. I can take care of myself. I don't need you dictating who I am and am not allowed to be friends with."   
Hannibal stands once he has released Will's leg. "Would a grown man act as you are?" He demands low and steady. "Throwing things about like a child?" His hands twitched as Will's foot moves closer to the neat stack of papers.

Will stands and they're chest to chest. "You know I have every right to be angry." He prods Hannibal's chest. They do not fight with fists but with words. "You showed me a lack of trust, Hannibal Lecter."  
"He had his hands all over you." Hannibal barely bares his slightly crooked teeth.   
"So now a hug is cheating?"

Hannibal breathes in deep. He is silent for far too long. 

"I can still smell him on you." The admission comes almost abruptly. Hannibal's shoulders sag only barely. He grips Will's hips to keep him in place. "His cologne...His arousal. You're not... Clean."

Their apartment is spotless. Hannibal sees to it that their closets are organized by color, season, and material. Their harvests are meticulously picked over for even the finest strand of hair. 

Will's throat clicks as he swallows. He drops his cheek to the man's shoulder and leans in. "Let's take a shower. I'll let you wash my hair." He whispers. Now he does feel guilty. 

Hannibal threads his fingers through Will's hair. It had been somewhat tamed with mousse but now the curls seem to spring out of place one by one. "Nothing would please me more."


	8. autophobia deux

Dr. Lecter is a respected psychiatric professional with a laundry list of accolades and gracious patients. 

Hannibal Lecter is a charismatic socialite with a small gaggle of pretentious followers vying for his attention.

Hannibal is a good friend who is always available with good food and good conversation.

Will’s Hannibal is an awkward, besotted, and shockingly goofy man.

As is their evening custom, the pair sit in the sitting room. Will pillows his head on Hannibal’s lap so he can angle his head just right to flip through one of his Italian grammar books. Hannibal leans uncomfortably closer to the arm of the sofa so that he can write in one of his journals without disturbing Will's resting place. He stares at the partially blank page and then, in a fit of genius, balances his fountain pen between his upper lip and nose.

Will glances up at him and tries, and fails, to hide a laugh behind his book.

Hannibal does not fear being known by Will. Under the person suit and under the mask of a killer he is but a man and he is sick.

Hannibal fears food prepared by hands other than his own.  
Hannibal fears what lies in the darkness of sleep.  
Hannibal fears disorder and filth.  
Hannibal fears being alone.

Therapy will never work on him. It will never work on either of them. Their codependency will one day result in the premature ending of their lives. They both know this.

They are not afraid because they are not alone.

Hannibal sets his journal and pen aside, pausing briefly to adjust the angle of the pen. He snatches Will’s protective covering away and sets it aside too.  
“And what is so funny?” He looms over Will. The light of the electric fire casts a skeletal shadow over his sharp features.   
Will grins, unafraid. “You.” The angle is awkward but he manages to pull Hannibal closer by grabbing his hair. “You are a disaster.”

His Hannibal who always pouts when one of his culinary tricks fails.   
His Hannibal who had once completely forgotten how to tie his tie.   
His Hannibal who balances things on his nose and mouth and head when deep in thought.   
His Hannibal who is deeply scarred and deeply disturbed.  
His Hannibal who he adores with the entirety of his being. 

“A disaster?” The man leans as close as their position allows. “You aim to wound me.” His hands became like claws then and he strikes suddenly.

Will wails with wild laughter as wicked hands wander up and down his sides. He tries to get away but the older man is on him like a predator. He wiggles his fingers over Will’s belly and sides and that one spot under his right arm that always has him near tears.

Hannibal smiles menacing and genuine and happy and only relents his attack once Will has gone red and splotchy from laughter. He grabs Will’s fine-boned wrists and holds him above his head, against the soft fabric of the sofa. His breathing is slightly labored from his own low laughter.

“You’ve only won the battle.” Will gasps for breath.  
“Oh? Are we at war then? Is this a declaration?” Hannibal cocks his head. His unstyled hair falls across his face almost boyishly. “I am prepared to forgo all protocols of the Geneva Conventions.”

Will finds that his face is sore from smiling and laughing. This Hannibal is for his eyes only. There is no mask. There is no human suit. There is just a man he loves despite everything that has happened.  
“Oh, we’re at war.” He wraps his legs around Hannibal’s hips. “Though I think we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

Hannibal smiles a smile that crinkles the lines around his eyes and pushes up the apples of his cheeks. “I am open to negotiation.” He leans in and presses their lips together.

Dinner will be made together. Then they would come together to sleep. In the morning they will clean the remnants of breakfast and the kitchen will return to its spotless state. They will kiss a dozen times over the course of the day and they will spend their evening together.

As it has for so many years, the cycle will continue. One day they will be found out. One day they will no longer be able to protect each other. For now, they are not afraid.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr under the same name!


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